


The Whole Land Will Rise Up Like The Nile

by godbewithyouihavedone



Category: Ancient History RPF, Historical RPF, Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Age Difference, Ancient sexuality issues yay, Angst, Canon Era, Descriptions of sex, Drug Use, Eleusinian Mysteries, Greek and Roman Mythology - Freeform, Half-hearted stalking, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Psychological issues from reincarnation, Reincarnation, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-05
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2018-02-03 12:07:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1744136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godbewithyouihavedone/pseuds/godbewithyouihavedone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In one life, Grantaire ruled an empire, and deified the boy he loved who died for him. Now, he finds him again, reborn into a revolution. But Grantaire knows he is less than Hadrian, and Enjolras so much more than Antinous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Love to Victor Hugo and Anthony Everitt (whose suppositions in _Hadrian: The Triumph of Rome_ are used throughout), and great thanks to Mymotheristherepublic for the beta read.

 

 

_"Will not the land tremble for this, and all who live in it mourn? The whole land will rise up like the Nile; it will be stirred up and then sink like the river of Egypt." Amos 8:8_

 

~~\--~~

 

Antoine Enjolras is fifteen when he first dreams of the boy. He lays down one night, eyes bleary from reading, and wakes in a city nestled at the base of a mountain.

The streets beyond his family's land smell like fatty cheese, festival food isn't worth enduring the commotion, and he doesn't want to be put on the trade path like a finely-dressed mule. He wants to be back where he was this morning, kicking his heels off an incomplete wall against a hill, laughing with friends and shouting to the builders about how ugly their bath would be, throwing his hair--blinding in its lightness from sunny days--over his shoulder.

But he could undergo all the silly pomp in the world, to be here, when he first sees the man.

Enjolras wakes, and the boy does not slip away, or fade to uncertain details the way dreams have before. He curls up and rests in his mind, bringing his baubles with him. In particular, the man's face from the end of the dream, gentle smile, close-cropped beard, and regal eyes, remains painfully clear.

It is not every night, but it is enough to mystify. A year later, he has spent enough time unwillingly strolling through this life that he begins to curve his neck the same way the boy does, starts treating fencing lessons like hunts, and looks at men, though this he tries to push away more than any physicality. And when he cannot stop this invasion, when he forgets not to inwardly call himself that name, when he wakes sobbing with joy for the scratch of whiskers on his forehead and the press of lips to his temple, fingers on the back of his neck, warm breath and promises that were never made to him--he accepts. He sinks into it.

In his old life his parents love him. Though he is still on the cusp of importance and grasping for more, they are proud for his wit. They do not send him off because he is strange and cold and disobedient, but to give him a better life, to prepare him for court. In his old life, the most powerful man in the world looks him in the eye and listens when he speaks about justice and history.

During his nights he travels, runs through forests and lives in finery. His days are spent folded into himself in cramped rooms, running fingers through his hair until they catch at knots, a hundred jeers and snarling faces crowding his mind. They didn't used to treat him this way just because he was beautiful. Is beautiful.

He knows the man's name is Hadrian, from hearing it in his history classes, gasping it into the freckles on his lover's neck. So when his parents forget to write to him for the fourth month in a row, he retreats to the library to search for his past.

If letting Antonius into his identity was the first mistake, this is the second.

He knew the depravity, almost enjoyed it at times, but the dark magics at the end of their five years together, he had never guessed. In the books, he is a bloated body pulled from a river. He is an idea that Hadrian carries into his heart and a deity he forces on the world. After he reads the emperor's grief in stilted, droning prose, Enjolras stays up three nights in a row until sleep claims him without his consent, wrestles him into bumpy roads and colorfully-painted temples, lavish foods and politics always ready to be grasped in his soft hands.

There is no less happiness, as usual tempered with adolescent exasperation, for knowing what is to come. Antonius lives in his time, follows the customs and sleeps in his bed at the court, warmed by a man he is sure will not be torn away from him. It is only Enjolras that knows. He has two years left to live.

He writes to his friends in the present, to his family, proclaims love they will not believe he is capable of. It is love taught to him by a boy who can barely write, but says Hadrian should stop pretending equality with fat old senators and believes he is heard.

Antonius challenges him and helps him appreciate the modern era, gives him what he cannot have now for the savagery that exists where he used to be gentle. He is, at least, grateful for what his other has bestowed, making the world both farther and more immediate, for all that he has done and what little he can do before he runs out of days. Enjolras reads like the world is ending, fights to become a person: distinct from the past, looking towards the future, desperate to know who he is before he is not.

There are so few months left now. He is out of private academies and into his parent's lives one last time, to hold them and pretend they are in any way worthy of the Bithynians who raised him a thousand and a half years ago. He enrolls as a student, nostalgic already for the future he will lose.

And oh, gods, the last dream.

Hadrian is dying, skin glimmering with sweat, wrinkles deeper than ever, body shaking in his hands. Antonius thinks about the patchy hair on his own cheeks and the slow descent of his voice, that it could be now, floating serenely on an opulent river barge while all he has ever been special to leaves him. Worse, he imagines years and years later, listening to some town crier proclaim the death of the emperor halfway across the world, holding a wife for comfort, knowing that they could have had an eternity if not for his grand Greek texts and the Capitol gossip, losing in love to Rome itself.

It is easier to sink.

Enjolras knew it, Antonius knew it, and while the promised power in the river leeches the strength from his bones, the current pushing at him until the colors behind his eyelids go black and his head lolls with the weight, he spends his last seconds hoping.

But Enjolras wakes up. He dies and he wakes up. He throws on what clothes he can find, fingers shaking as he tries to tie his cravat without being flooded by the Nile, chest heaving while traitorous breaths pour from his lungs.

He has so little air. He has so little.

The Seine is not nearly as lovely a picture to drown in. He wandered here in a daze, symbolic and dramatic to the last. It smells noxious and it churns fiercely as he stands at the banks, watching the foam slap against the sides, eyes tracing roiling patterns he could crush all his bones under, wondering why he is here again. Why he did not just leave.

What has brought him to these shores, this land so close to Italy, so far from Egypt, to wake up in a city that thinks itself Rome, to read new philosophy and old, when he already lived as much as he wanted to?

He doesn't blame himself. But he doesn't jump. There isn't anyone to jump for, and that's what makes him stagger with sobbing.

 

~~\--~~

 

At the university he closes his eyes and sees only dark blue water swirling. He has always cared that the justice Hadrian worked so hard for is still being crushed under the heels of the idle rich, blanched at the idea of an official citizenry treated no better than freedmen, but knowing that he will have to stay here, it jabs with immediacy.

His sculpted face may inhabit museums. All the ideals he clung to are weathered and broken and buried with the rest of his country.

But he wanted something to believe in before he died, and though again he was born just past the glory of the Republic, he still feels the history is his. France built what Rome destroyed, but her kings treat all the people as slaves. They say they are past the values of heathens. He would rather believe in government than one God, now that they are separate.

He has been worshipped for hundreds of years, and now it is his turn. It calms the waters and silences the memories of an emperor's hands on his flesh. If he doesn't care to dwell on recollections now that the dreams have ceased, it is entirely reasonable. He is older now than he has ever been.

Antinous chose to die and Enjolras lived it with him, learned every reason and felt the soaring in his chest, spoke the prayers on his lips as he let his body go limp into the pulsing pressure of the rapids. He understood, but he did not follow, and now he suspects no love in this life would tempt him. That earns him the right to live past the Bithynian boy.

Then he reads and talks and finds friends with similar passions, and he realizes that his heart is still ready to be poured at the feet of a wasting ruler, but others are made like him, and there is no shame in loving Patria, for Patria will not die. No matter how many mysteries he attended and temples he built, Hadrian was no god. Enjolras's convictions still thrive in coffeeshop corners, no need to sadly strip them of color and immortalize them in museums.

At last, he is in love with a living thing. Like the time before, he knows his soul only has room to follow one.

It doesn't prevent his skin from echoing when classmates brush against him, conjuring memories of the worst actions even as they call him an innocent. The feelings are clear as if he had touched and been touched yesterday, even though he keeps away from women, pretends he has no want for men. There is enough weakness in his head without bringing it to his hands.

He still trembles through some nights, but it is Antinous's need. If he was to build it, it would be before he died--should have died--but Enjolras dedicates his body to his schoolwork and his heart to the people.

His first friend is accidental: Combeferre argues with him after lectures, walking out together and then pacing Paris until the sun sets behind them and they're both completely winded. In ages past, Combeferre could have governed a province, commanded a legion. Enjolras sees him speaking in the Senate, losing sleep planning restoration projects as part of the traveling court. He'd watched those lamps in the distance when he could not rest, itching to rise and join them, but unwilling to leave Hadrian's embrace.

Instead, Combeferre attends lectures with ink smudges on the back of his ears, softens his look when Enjolras talks about Patria, hides laughter behind his sleeve when they get lost for the fourth time that night.

He says, "There's a matter on your mind, and it is not altogether trivial, I think." Enjolras startles, looks up through his curls. He had thought it was not obvious, had kept his hands still and pushed away thoughts of the hunting and repose afterward from last night. Careful, he'd prevented his gaze from falling to his fingertips, where Hadrian's blood had soaked into the nail bed as he bound a scrape, where he'd been kissed and kissed and kissed, then on the mouth until Hadrian laughed and said the stains at the edge of his lips recalled cherries.

"Ah, no," Enjolras says, but he is awful at lying in both lives.

"When your opinion is not conventional, you have never shied away from telling me, so I would like it if I had your honesty here."

"That's not--"

Combeferre claps him on the shoulder. "Or a bit of the truth, at least. Tell what you can tell."

He has carried these dreams and fragments of another inside him, and he wakes exhausted with silence. Combeferre is an excellent partner for debate, and if he tries to explain the madness that is his two lives, he may leave Enjolras lost in Paris, rush out of classes to avoid the superstitious nonsense he's condemned before. But it is not the magic of it that has him rattled, for this is an aspect of his life like his studies and his strained relations, it is the unmooring of difference, how he never expected to be here.

That, he can tell.

"I think about drowning," Enjolras says. He takes a deep breath. "Not being held under. Drowning myself. I have not...I barely swum as a boy. And if I am to die, I always--I want to die nobly, happily. With hope, but it is, sometimes life feels distant."

"I am sorry," Combeferre says. He touches Enjolras again, and it does not summon a lover's caress. How he feels is all how Combeferre is to him. "I would not like that, as selfish as it is to use my own concerns as a counterpoint. Do you need to stop walking?"

Enjolras smiles. "My soul is tired, not my feet."

"Both could find rest in my rooms, if you'll allow it. We are hours from resolving our discussion on the cause of low wages."

Enjolras follows him home. A month later, they live together, and though he locks his door to prevent Combeferre from him when he dreams, it is calming to have someone who shares his causes. Who would care if he died.

In the galleries, his body stands naked, his eyes far-seeing, so perfectly made it could only be a cry of anguish.

But beyond history, he and Combeferre gather friends and plan a different memorialization.


	2. Chapter 2

Hardoine Grantaire stops talking about the memories when his confidants begin to look as if they think he should be locked up.

He is eight, and does not recognize the consequences of the fear and pity in their eyes, but he knows well enough when to swallow parts of himself. He used to try to eat dust from the air, or nibble at grass, or on one occasion his mother will not cease recounting, he bit into a book. All this has been long unlearned, but when his father flinches at him, voice low and hands shaking as he explains the division for the fifth time, he is still adept at putting the things he doesn't want others to see deep inside his stomach.

So it will be for this.

Grantaire only waited so long because it used to bring them joy. They'd call him imaginative when he babbled about racing through thick forests with hounds at his heels, tell him his descriptions were like a painter's. His friends used to gather around, hanging off each word of fierce battles with barbarian tribes, all the different kinds of armor he saw and how it felt to hold a sword and spear.

He used to be able to make people happy, but now he sees they thought he was lying. That the world he visited at his sleeping hours was a product of his endless reading.

"Well once, we learned about the war against the English, and I dreamt about knights," one of his friends says.

"But I don't dream about anything else," he says, and then his friends all laugh, so he never speaks of it to his classmates again.

One night, after his father storms out of his room, dragging his papers and his disappointed eyes with him, Grantaire's mother appears. She rests a thin wrist on his doorframe and curls her other hand around a slow-dripping candle.

"You're still a keen boy, you know," she says. The unpinned parts of her dark hair wisp off her pointed chin like smoke.

"I know," he says, and he devours his real thought: _I am less than nothing to him_. It slides down easily, but remains bitter on his tongue.

"Are you going to visit your Rome tonight?" she asks. Her voice is always so careful. She tells him she loves him in the same way his teacher poses a difficult question in exams.

"It was only a fancy, mama."

"You talked so prettily of it. Did you ever know which emperor you wanted to be?"

"Hadrianus."

"Echoes your name, a bit. A good emperor, built the walls, didn't he? Did your interest in history wane with your game?"

"I like mathematics," Grantaire lies.

He used to calculate the stars, to foretell grand events, but when he tries to summon an adult's knowledge, he comes back empty-handed. Hadrian had talent for all matters, and Grantaire is excellent at getting the classroom to laugh at him. He remembers enough for all his lessons to become tedious, like words whispered over and over, indecipherable as they are annoying. His teacher thinks him stupid, as his father does. Maybe he lost intelligence where he lost a great many horses and houses.

It does not seem like dreams anymore. It is a life, and he supposes like in the moralistic tales of converts from wickedness, there is always a sacrifice to leave behind during rebirth.

When girls on the street step away at his smiles, he thinks Hadrian was likely more handsome, as well. Or perhaps wealth and power transformed his visage in the eyes of lovers. His friends call him too young to chase after skirts, but he dreamed of such acts and beauties before their voices had begun to lower.

In church they praise chastity, but he is so past being a lost cause. Taking the Eucharist does not make him shiver and see, bringing his mind to his knees, as sacrificing to Jupiter did.

He is a pagan and a madman and a sinner smeared with lust, and he has done little but draw, read, and occasionally stir trouble. He's hardly ventured outside his house, too tethered by foolish expectations, and there is already no forgiveness left, merely with living in this age.

These are marvelous justifications, far and among the most illustrious, and, well. He used to live modestly to show his loyalty and equality with the soldiers, but he spent his fortune on hunts and restoring the Greek way, and commissioned hundreds of statues bearing the same face he doesn't yet recognize. His indulgences were unique, but he still chases pleasure how he used to chase panthers, an unoriginal shadow in all things.

He meets a girl and he pays her and he calls her a goddess when she is in his arms. It is awful; he keeps remembering where he used to put his hands and how to kiss, but then knowledge does not translate at all to the chance he has in front of him.  He sweats and fumbles.

She tells him it’s evident she was his first while he is tugging on his jacket. After she slips from the room he rams his head into the windowpane and curses his past self for his unnatural skill at all things.

He wants her to teach him, and she wants the money his father procures making numbers dance. It serves, until he meets another girl in the market. His friends (if they can be called that, for they slip through his life like sand through his fingers on Africa's shores) say she is plain, but when she turns her neck just so and looks up at him through honey-colored lashes, he is enraptured.

She does not need money to join him in bed. True, they are both drunk, but they laugh together and he shows her how he wants her now that he knows how to.  So she is poor; he will still marry her. He is not sure why marriage still seems to have a solemnity to it, for it was far worse to wake with someone due to their political convenience, to endure his wife's icy glares.

"I love you," she says, blushing as he traces her cheek and chin with his lips. "You are so good-humored, I can't believe you could desire me."

"I've evidence that proves you are mistaken," he says, kissing the dimple above her jaw and slotting his hips up into the softness of her form in his lap. He wants to ask her to be his wife, but there it is gone again, down his stomach like the wine each night. Tomorrow he will tell, and she'll blush harder, and his parents will burn with quiet fury.

As a source of pride, the scenes to come will rival ownership of the empire.

She slips out of his house and hurries home, her footfalls barely audible. He stretches and leans back in his bed, drinking in the mess they've made of the sheets, and slips comfortably back to Rome again.

He is riding a horse through the surprisingly verdant hills of a desert, and he hears the pounding of hooves behind him. Up through the palm trees, there is the magnificent tawny haunches and swishing, black-tipped tail of a lion.

"Think yourself skilled enough yet to handle this beast?" he calls behind him.

"Yes, yes!" a breathless man answers, and Grantaire feels Hadrian's pride and happiness in hearing the voice.

They chase the lion through the desert, as the sun begins to dip from midday and his hands heavy with carrying the spear. Sometimes the boy rides ahead, and he sees tousled blonde hair and a strong yet slender back. Grantaire cannot understand how the mere glimpse of this person could send his heart racing as easily as a pouncing lion.

He fends her off with his spear, making sure the blow thwaps onto her coiled back instead of piercing the fur and sinews, and the lion turns, roaring, to sink her claws into the side of the boy's horse.

The horse stumbles and collapses, and the boy screams, sending more fear than Grantaire has ever known through Hadrian's veins. He sticks her in the neck as she is lunging toward the boy.

"Antinous!" he screams.

His spear drags through the beast, and he plunges it again. Antinous falls from the seat of his mangled horse into the dry dirt, and Hadrian hears the lioness's bones snap under the hooves of his mount as he offers a hand. Her guttural death-cry is no triumph, not with Antinous shaking before him.

He helps the boy onto his horse, holding him in his lap and asking over and over, "Are you hurt? Are you afraid?" if only to hear that dear voice murmur, "No, no, no, I'm not, you saved me."

Antinous has the face he knows he will send throughout the world, and the moment he has his arms around him, Grantaire understands why.

"I knew the risks," Antinous says when they return to their lodgings. Hadrian only let go of him to dismount, and now enfolds him in his arms. "I am lucky to hunt with you. I would rather watch you fight off a hundred wild things than not share in the glory of the chase."

"If I had not struck--"

Antinous sighs, draping himself over a pillowed chair. Even with dirt and horse's blood matted in his hair he is a vision. "Only look towards tomorrow, please."

"I was afraid as if the lion had lunged for me," Hadrian says.  He believes it.

"And if it had, I could not have felled it!  I need more practice, not your worries--" Antinous pauses, shakes his head. "Oh, I am sorry. You were trying to tell me how you care for me."

Hadrian laughs, though it is strained. "Yes. If I had to watch your journey to Elysium, I would not worry. It is fear, for what the world holds in it bereft of your presence. I knew that as never before in that moment. Of course you may still hunt. But you may not leave tonight to bring me to that again."

"Oh gods," Antinous says, and he cries.

"We'll distract each other, now," Hadrian says, takes Antinous's hand, callused from holding his spear, between his own rougher ones. "We will laugh and talk of the provinces and wake sprawled over each other in the morning, but I'll not forget. You can do what you wish with that fear, but what is mine is mine. I loved you so much, then. You are ever deeper in my thoughts, beyond family or ruling or vain pastimes like hunting. Beloved, I am still afraid, and that is my joy."

Antinous raises his chin, eyes blue as the canal, and pulls him into a fierce kiss. He kisses like he hunts, tentative beyond bravado, elegant and powerful, and Hadrian keeps ahold of his shoulders, as if he would fall from his arms without it.

 

~~\--~~

 

Grantaire finds consciousness, clarity, and a hangover all at the same instant.

He knows he has never felt that, here in France. The girl, he can barely remember her name. He is capable of love, but the emotion was so destructive, so engulfing compared to the sweet sin of his little dalliances, he does not know why he thought he was capable before.

And for a boy, no less. He knew Hadrian took men to bed, he'd seen a sketch in his history book of that face dated to the emperor's reign, but he'd thought he knew the foibles, trials, and triumphs of his old life. How could he have missed this?

What if he never dreams of Antinous again?

He takes up a pen and paper as the dawn slides in through the latches of his window. This is one area he cannot measure short of, ignore as useless in the modern times. He will love the way Hadrian loved. He already bursts with it, from a few hours spent with Antinous.

"Monsieur Grantaire?" the girl asks, and he swallows bile to see his past lover in her cheeks and posture. He thought it best to meet her at the time they agreed to.

"I think I ought not to come round again," he says.

She looks at her feet. "You love me." Her voice is rough.

"I am sorry, I did think that at a time," he says, smoothing her hair back from her face as she begins to cry. With Antinous, every tear felt like a blessing, washing away the burden of power, the weakness of connection. But Grantaire is already tired of her.

"You don't--"

"You don't want me," he says. "Believe me. I am devoted to a man I have never met, I have nothing left to give you. I am dull and annoying and oft-drunk, and my only talent is living in my memories. Please, please, find another."

"You were none of these things when we made love," she says, pressing herself against him. Her tears stain his collar, and he grabs her by the shoulders to push her gently away. "Do you know what another would say to me, now that you've used me?"

"I wish I could have loved you," Grantaire longs to say. "I would have wizened by your side and not known greater happiness.  It is my condition, to have been born better the first time."

Instead he says the last sentence in this monologue, tells her, "You are blameless."

He flees, runs to his parent's house, packs what he can carry, and steals what he can find. On the road to Greece and Italy he sketches Antinous each night. Suddenly, the boy is filling his dreams: hours spent by his side, campaigns with him waiting after the work was done, days at court looking always to him as he does his duty.

He only stays in Athens a week, because after a week he is plunged into the past, when he initiated Antinous into the Eleusinian Mysteries, joining in the rites himself. After a week he remembers the promise of eternity, how it had felt to truly lay his worries about the afterlife into the water, the small pig cradled in his hands taking so much with it.

He hears its squeal as the knife goes in, the blood spreading across the basin, and he dips his hands in the water, the red of its life sticking onto them and falling from his fingers as others draw him back, cloth covers his eyes, and hide settles heavy onto his shoulders.

After he is cleansed by air and fire, Antinous’s piglet writhes quickly in his hands and he stares, questions and protest in his eyes. Hadrian wants to reach out, to hold him, but there are trials he cannot shoulder for his lover, and soon the creature is motionless. Odes to beauty are written in the fear and the self-consciousness of an initiate. His gentle boy cannot stand to see even a beast die for him.

“You did so well,” Hadrian whispers into his ear, later, and the creak of the lid rips through the air as the secret chest opens, followed by a frenzy of whispers.

The smoke stings in his eyes while he kneels, and the chanting rises until it does not seem to come from his own lips and the mouths of the priests around them but from the stone of the temple itself, from deep below the earth, from all the stars, infused with their devotion. Antinous clings to his hand, and he raises his head, trembling as he has never before, to behold the sacred objects, because it is done.

They are to be joined, now, always.

He stumbles into Rome drunk and crying, and that is when his worlds start bleeding through. That is when Grantaire cannot tell the difference between days.  He paints like the madman he is, unskilled but haunted by blond hair and full lips. Whenever he wakes, he is feverish and all the color is drained, the statues and buildings crumbling in his hands. He walks the streets bereft for friends from ages past. Finally, he worships at old temples, is thrown out of them while his head rings with ecstasy and opium, prays each time only to find the way back to his beloved in his dreams.

"Hadrian the Frenchman," he hears, and someone slaps at his face. "Imperator, open your eyes."

It's a man, a laughing man, more cragged and ruddy in feature than the house he thought he was at last night, attending a sick senator, but when he blinks bleary and the world turns dark and yellow like warped candlelight it is clear he is the afflicted between them.

"I say things, when I'm drunk," he tries to say, although it croaks from his throat.

"Lucky man, I can't speak such Latin sober."

"Sorry for bothering, I--"

"I liked you better drunk, you sounded like a prophet. You told me to reach health and talked about sailing to Africa. I liked the way you described it. Safe travels," the man says, palming money into his hand. "Where are you going, beyond restoring the marvels of the Greeks?"

"Do you know the story of the Emperor Hadrian and the boy Antinous?"

The stranger shakes his head.

Grantaire smiles. "Better for you, then."

An attempt is made: to keep himself from the mercy of strangers, to stop throwing wine down his throat. He has a futile hope to wake and know for certain if he is asleep, or in the past, or drugged, or wandering about hills stacked with memories and thieves.

He counts days on his arms and legs with paint, marks to anchor him at a glance during nights of destroying his body, when it is only the presence of color on his forearms that assures him he is not dreaming. The paint has cracked open on his skin by the time he bargains his way, with terrible Italian, onto a ship bound for Egypt.

It has been over half a year since he left France. He is broke and muddled, no closer to meaning.

The curse: a great man's sense of purpose, a small man's dream of acceptance. Still he knows what is worth acquiescing and the dangers of clinging to a dream of a life.  Hadrian fought for what mattered and secured an expanse. Grantaire will leave the moment the hurt of this becomes unbearable, run back to Paris with his tail between his legs.

But he can't endure, knowing he hasn't seen the end. He is weary with innocence.

No one worships the Nile anymore. It still sweeps through their fields until they burst green and gold with crops, but concern here lies in political uprisings and taxes.  His fellow travelers want to see the pyramids. They looked much better last time, shining and untouched, Grantaire thinks.

They used to speak Greek on these streets, and he is ready to converse, but waits to open his mouth. The robed stranger who greets them yells at them in English, and then French, and then Spanish, and then says something in another language with the inflection of a question, and so Grantaire shuts up.

Egypt has lost its Hellenism, and a part of him wants to dismiss it entirely for that. Without the scholars, it is full of empty buildings and bustling marketplaces.  How strange it must be, for others, to wake and walk in a land without pale shadows for its forefront.

Grantaire sketched the people who passed by outside his arch in Athens. They moved quickly, or gawked at the architecture, or swore at him for leaning up against it.  He drew their faces and their postures. A stray cat wandered in his path, then when he reached for it, drew its tail up, turned, and kept prancing on. The day grew hot, and he flipped his paper over and bit at his shirtsleeve in concentration.

The people began to take on more life under his hand. He chased them with his charcoal, aiming to capture the spark in their eyes, careful to shade the stains into their clothing, seeking the truth of their jawlines.

And above him, the arch stood, its shadow lengthening over him as the sun set and the people trickled into their houses, mocking him with its permanence.

He has not drawn his new life since then. There was nothing technically wrong with the work, but it is as if he is illustrating the surfaces of moons. Art may accomplish a great many things, but Grantaire has never found it sufficient at crossing worlds.

His heart, however, has never been addled by those boundaries.

As expected, the city he created for his boy is now only a pile of stones. Grantaire remembers attending the games here, swallowing every other moment to keep his eyes dry, remembers his wife staying in their residence, unwilling to pray to her rival.  He’d hated her then, more than usual, which was a feat in itself. It wasn’t her fault, as she’d never met Antinous, formally, and it is easy to let a beautiful shadow die.

It follows that it is impossible to watch someone die if that someone waved his hands when he talked and ran his tongue over his teeth as he thought and picked at the hem of his tunic when you complimented him, too graceful and too genuine for his festival costume. He had not known how he would love him then, their first meeting, only his beauty.

There was a quality to him that Hadrian saw would last, but he was not imagining watching his limp form dragged onto the shores of the Nile, looking to the sky, anywhere but at his corpse, and seeing him there, a new star he had never tracked. Understanding, finally, that he was the one who had been chosen, not Antinous. Antinous was always divine, with every moment they shared, and now it was not only Hadrian who knew, all the world watched him leave.

He would make sure they remember. He knew he would live on. Antinous must. They'd seen the sacred objects together.  They would have temples, and priests, and sacrifices in their honor, and all of this would tip the cosmic scale, bring them even and judged worthy, and he would see him again.

The star was Antinous, and they would be reunited. It was the only way he could live now, so it was so.

But then he died. And he woke up an ordinary child. Now he is here, where he buried his lover endless years before, and the only part of the city that is in any condition is the temple. So he stands before it, terrified to enter this space.

Hadrian would hate him for it, but Grantaire brought spirits for courage. He sits on the steps, where they are not cracked, and he drinks and wipes his mouth, until the dark finds him. He looks up only once, to see the sun set behind the pillars of the temple, fierce oranges and reds that he knows he will paint, one day.

But they are gone, soon, and in the cold dry night the empty bottle falls from his hands. The streets begin to build, paving themselves, banners unfurling from the broken roofs, and Grantaire watches the nineteenth century slink away, defeated.

The people walk toward him, solemn-faced, some wearing laurels for athletic prowess or magnificence in the arts, some holding torches. They stop and wait at the gate to the temple, look up at him.

Grantaire rises, his body lurching with the effort. Though the night air nips at his skin, his head and face and throat are burning. He turns, and he begins to recite the poetry he has composed, leaning on a pillar.

The altar is covered with splendid carved gold, and a hunk of worn rock all at once.

The statue is the same.

Below it is an urn, stone blue as his eyes were, and Grantaire reaches for it, for the ashes, once the body of the love of his lives, but it’s not there, it stands in his sight but he can’t touch it with his hands. The voices of the worshippers begin to sound like the wind whistling, and the statue is white as a ghost.

He is screaming the words, grasping at the dirt-smeared surface of the altar, his eyes filled with the waves dragging Antinous under, forearms bruised from his servants holding him down, thrashing because he was still too sick to know whether this was delusion. There is no one here but him, and he lays down on the altar, curls up, asking anything that happens to be listening not to let him wake.

“All by virtue of the truth that He breathes the breath of Eternal Life, and His magnitude comes into being in the hearts of all men,” he croaks.

His stomach turns, and he watches a cow being led onto this slab, prays to feel the knife go in. _Take me, I have nothing else. Take me, if that’s the only way to see you. Take me now, or I will have no reason to have been here._

“You have to be strong for me, one more time,” a quiet voice says, or perhaps it used to be quiet, but now it echoes in his ears with commandment.

He wrenches his head up, looking around wildly, but the whitened walls of the temple are spinning. Then his mind is wracked with pain and his gut roils, and the effort becomes too much. He tries to let his neck fall softly, but it cracks sharp on the stone, light bursts into his vision, and he hears the words in the dark reverberate across the desert, before he loses consciousness.

 

~~\--~~

 

Grantaire returns to Paris. He does not even dare seek out his parents, not after stealing so often and leaving them nothing, for all their work raising him. He tries his hand at art, apprentices and makes that sunset die across a canvas, but it no longer has the manic reverence it used to. So his boy is beautiful. It does nothing, to create him, now.

When he drinks he no longer thinks he is in Rome. Opium is out, as well, and he would not have tried it again in Paris if he hadn’t wanted to return, so he does not enjoy it for its own merits.

The dreams are less, these days. The last one in which Antinous featured was hearing his voice just before he achieved a concussion in his tomb. He is the most worthless acolyte, and he does not deserve to haunt the city he created in his god’s name. Grantaire drinks and gambles and rambles on history, lives in a way only accessible to men who have nothing else to look forward to. It is a brilliant performance, and for some seconds he can let his moronic tragedy slip his mind, but part of the apathy needed to achieve wastefulness is guilty knowledge of better ways.

He fucks women and the occasional man. Most do not stay, the men in particular. It is disturbing, he gathers, to have your tryst fall apart in your arms after the event. He cannot help it; even his basest instincts call to Antinous until they are hoarse.

Paris is no more home than Rome ever was, but he knows what to expect from this life, now. He’ll waste it and nothing will matter and nothing is waiting for him after he finds a grave, perhaps at the bottom of his bottle, perhaps in escaping a particularly melancholy day.

Everything in him tries to know this. But Grantaire is impossible, even to himself. So he hides the part of him that still whispers aspirations to the heavens, swallows it, locks it up as a mirror to the sacred objects of the mysteries, the opposite of the holiest. He has never had any dreams outside of the past, and perhaps it is better that way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On Grantaire/Hadrian's sexuality: Hadrian likely only slept with men, and the only indication we have that he had sex with women was his wife making snippy comments about specifically avoiding getting pregnant by him. However, sources don't necessarily tell the whole picture, and I did not want to erase Grantaire's non-monosexuality.
> 
> The scene with Antinous and the lion actually happened. Also, both were initiated into the mysteries, although a bit of creative license is taken with the order/location of the process.
> 
> The prayer Grantaire quotes is from Antinous's obelisk, and was very very likely written by Hadrian.


	3. Chapter 3

Antoine Enjolras has folded and unfolded the slip of paper between his hands so many times it is beginning to wear away at the creases, and Bahorel gave it him a week past. The second he turned to answer in a dispute and let it out of his hand during their last meeting, Courfeyrac reached behind him and snatched it. Before Enjolras could protest, those quick fingers folded it open once, twice, three times (oh, why did he fold it three times?). He dropped it onto the table at the Musain and looked at Enjolras, as if Enjolras was going to explain after he stole it.

Bahorel was ever helpful. “He wants to learn to fight.”

“It’s a chausson society,” Combeferre said. “Bahorel has mentioned them before, on account of a fistful of his hair being missing.” He paused, and bestowed an expression on Enjolras intended to convey pages of advice. “Not one of your best ideas, I’m afraid. Gentlemen, let us resume our talk of history, and not steal from our brothers.”

“I thought it might be a love letter,” Courfeyrac said.

Enjolras took the paper back and folded it four times, staring intently at the table.

~~\--~~

Now he is at the place it references, a gap between streets that is badly paved, the roof casting it into shadow. Perhaps it protects the savanteurs from the late-afternoon heat wafting off his coats, where the note is tucked. The bells of a nearby church clang in the silence, announcing it is seven, which is also written on the paper.

The last instruction: to wear his heaviest boots.

When he arrives, it is only a few men leaning up against the wall, smoking.

“Are you the activist?” one asks, and Enjolras feels his face warm. Does he appear that out of place?

But their company is pleasant, if ribald, and he tries to return their easy smiles, to cheer as they spar with each other. One of them teaches him a few simple kicks that he practices against the wall.

It is amazing how they move, the rhythm of their canes clacking against each other, the thump of a foot hitting flesh, the grind of pebbles and soft sound of stray earth sloshing up to their knees when they miss and their boots slam into the ground. And the noises of the combatants: the panting, the groans, the sharpness of breath forcibly leaving stomachs or necks.

Despite how guttural and terrifying the whole picture is, he’ll learn. He flinches back every time there’s a good blow, but soon he will know how to defend himself, and that will have infinite use in their plan of rebellion. He isn’t blustering or trying to menace as many of these men are.

An example of their ridiculous statements: “You have fists as thin my mistress’s!”

“And I hope to have you cowering just as she does, Telbon,” the other says, wiping dirt off his hair from where he’d fallen.

“Excuse me,” Enjolras says.

They turn to look at him. Telbon stutters forward, hoping for the advantage of a turned back, then when his opponent’s eyes track him, leans onto his heels and smiles.

“Of course, you’re not instructing women,” Enjolras says.

“She doesn’t need these fools to beat what she pleases with womanly grace,” Telbon says.

“That isn’t necessary.”

“She’d have you friendlier with the pavement than usual, boy. And I admire her that, if you keep insulting her.”

Enjolras shakes his head. “I don’t intend any insult to her. You’re the one who should be able to protect her--”

“Watch me.”

Telbon’s thick eyebrows knit over his eyes, bright with the challenge. He looks as he did when he was beating at the other man, only deeper and stiller, the difference between a light rain and gathering clouds. The calm is an overture for something he means Enjolras to suffer, and there is little bluster in the way he leans back on his heels again, coiling his torso forward. Enjolras followed the directions Bahorel gave him to the letter, but he’s still walked into a trap.

“I don’t have a cane…” Enjolras says, and Telbon’s opponent thrusts his at his chest.

He tries to bring it up, to block, but Telbon lunges and hits him in the side. Then he runs forward, hooks his ankle around Enjolras’s and drives the head of his cane into Enjolras’s stomach, just barely missing his ribs. Enjolras staggers against the wall, hearing the jeers and shouts of the others--and they don’t sound pleased.

Then Telbon whirls his cane into Enjolras’s shoulder, and Enjolras just manages to block his foot from his chest with the side of his own cane. It’s too heavy in his hands, and he needs to get some leverage, to get away from the wall.

“I should be teaching you what moves I’m using to hurt you, but apparently they aren’t enough to make me worth your time,” Telbon says, and Enjolras ducks, but finds a booted heel in his gut. “Be glad I haven’t broken your nose--”

“You aren’t fighting fair,” Enjolras says, grasping himself with the hand that isn’t shakily holding a cane above his face, “or your friends would be cheering.”

“You pretty little shit--”

This time, when Telbon drives the point of his toe into his knee, Enjolras almost crumbles--and then the hand comes up, and he manages to curl under, use the downward momentum to drop, and the sharpness of Telbon’s nails burn down the side of his mouth, instead of clawing at his eyes.

His lip splits, he tastes metal from the edge of his mouth and smells dirt and raises his hands above his head, cane rolling off to the side, feeling blood start to drip down his chin with the sweat.

“Telbon!” a man screams.

Enjolras’s chest heaves, his stomach aches. Still he manages to look up through his forearms, while someone steps between them.

“What’s all this? I just arrived and you’re trying to blind some poor bastard?” the man asks. He toes at Enjolras’s cane, on the ground, and kicks it up into his hand, crossing over with another. “At least tell me what set you off. It isn’t good for the digestion, to beat a man to death before dinner.”

“He’s new, Telbon, he didn’t mean it,” another says.

“Is this the crazy republican known to Bahorel?” the man turns, although he keeps one of the canes extended in a warning. He offers Enjolras his cane, to pull up. Enjolras blinks back tears and grabs hold of the end, letting himself be raised.

His savior isn’t particularly well-dressed, with ratted clothes drooping off his short, bulky body. Nor is he well-formed. He has splotchy red patches on his face, dark brown stringy hair that might curl if relieved of grime, and his nose is off-center compared to last time--

“Yes,” Enjolras says. He is indeed unsound, and committed to liberty, and a compatriot of Bahorel’s.

He is all of this, just as this man is all of Hadrian.

“You just watch for now,” the man says, and Enjolras sees the same awestruck recognition in his face, but the others cannot hear it in his voice.

He is uglier, with no beard to cover his weaker chin and ruddy skin, thick knot at the middle his Roman nose, no doubt previously broken in a fight such as this. But he still looks at Enjolras as if there could never be another soul in all the universe, and those eyes still send his skin to tighten and his heart to peel open at his feet. The man hasn’t let go of the borrowed cane.

“Telbon, come back sober,” he says.

“I’m sober as you are, Grantaire,” Telbon says. He wipes Enjolras’s blood from his fingers onto the side of his pants.

Enjolras leans against the wall, his knees a moment from falling out from under him. Grantaire even moves like Hadrian did. There’s an anchored fluidity, as he spins the cane, hands it to Telbon’s previous opponent, and then strides into the sunlight past the buildings.

Hadrian is here. He has another name, and though he could be a few years older, certainly looks cragged enough, Enjolras is no longer half his age.

In milleniums past, this half-drunk savanteur with a dark smile took him to bed and then around the world and then under the river.

Now he spars with the others and calls out the names of moves for Enjolras’s benefit, but he cannot listen, only watches the shaping of his lips and his pink tongue, a mouth that had once been sealed to his for hours, that had proclaimed law in the Senate. French does not suit him, but neither did Latin.

Enjolras is going to leave him.

Before they can talk, before they can find each other again, he’ll apologize to Bahorel and feign fear at the brutality of the chausson circle. He has seen old friends from school and strode quickly past them when they tried to ask about his current poverty, and fielded offers of any vice imaginable. Each time, it has only strengthened his resolve and brought the depth of his devotion to the forefront of his mind, a pleasure that endures in all the ways indulging his flesh never could.

He will hurry away, while Grantaire is occupied, and blessed be, Paris is gigantic. They need not see each other in the streets again, or pause in the same window-front. He has lived in this city all his life alone in his condition, to be a man flung into the next age. It is viciously satisfying to know he can continue to do so, despite the man he longed for when he did not have values standing before him, laughing and patting at his boots as he retreats to watch the next match.

There would be nothing cowardly about leaving. It is what he has trained himself to do, when thoughts of Antinous’s experiences slip into his mind.

Though he evaluates this with pride and relief, he does not stir from his collapse against the wall. He dabs at the cut down the side of his mouth, and attends to two other parallel scratches, skin unbroken but edges burning. He tastes blood and tries not to taste Grantaire’s breathing when the man falls in beside him.

“Here will be a real presentation of skill, after my fumblings,” Grantaire says, pointing out the man Telbon fought and another, whose voice Enjolras recognizes as backing Grantaire in his defence. Grantaire sounds like he is covering his nervousness with bravado. Hadrian never did. When upset, the emperor steeled himself and sunk into the position of autocrat, almost the opposite of Grantaire’s strategy of flitting around with a smile.

Enjolras shifts away from him, slightly. They are both minimizing their reactions from the rest of the group, concealing the way they move together, masking the long, evaluating stares. Even the hair on his forearms still has the same patterns as when he used to trace it while Hadrian slept next to him, it’s utterly strange.

“A revolutionary,” Grantaire whispers.

“You haven’t volunteered your profession,” Enjolras says. Grantaire laughs and points again to the fighting.

Enjolras frowns, and even that stings. He dabs at his mouth with his sleeve. The blood from before is drying in streaks down the side of his jaw, but the wound has not scabbed yet. He is fortunate to know a great many medical students.

At the end of the practice, Telbon looks back their way. “All in honor, Monsieur Terror,” he says.

“I am sure,” Grantaire replies. He looks at Enjolras, pitches his voice low. “Antinous--”

“Who?” Enjolras asks.

“Next week, then,” Grantaire says. He reaches out, and touches Enjolras’s shoulder. As the soft scrape of his nails presses, he circles his fingers slightly, and Enjolras wants to reel. He could not have done more damage if he had finished what Telbon wanted and gouged out his eyes. All the fortifications he has built are overthrown, and his head spins with want.

If it were only the thought of that body, lounging casually now but still capable of defending him, of destroying beasts--still able, he wagers, to cover every inch, to press him down with firm muscles and a round soft stomach and firmest still beneath his hands, cock pushing up through his fingers. So close, their bodies arching to mingle like their like breath and mouths, he will feel every movement, every tremble, in his bones, pinned like a specimen under wide hips and roving eyes. Enjolras knows, in that moment, that Grantaire could touch him like Hadrian, until there is as much discomfort as pleasure, plucking his sensitivity like an instrument, painting warmth onto his skin, and beyond until--

Then he would hold him, afterward, play fingers across his thighs, smearing the sweat there into the curve of his hipbone, peppering kisses on his shoulder-blades, the last of his vertebrae, the edge of his golden hair.

Enjolras would be nothing more than a boy with a lovely little face, who makes average men with strange knowledge in their eyes feel like they are conquerors. France would suffer and he’d lean back and sigh into the crook of his lover’s neck, allow the world to slip by for a few hours.

He would wonder if he did not deserve some pleasure. Courfeyrac would actually open love-letters and Combeferre would ask him about nighttime visitors. Antinous did not care about the poor, the needy, beyond a deep fellow-feeling that ran only to his heart. He murmured about care and justice, and Hadrian stroked his hair, nodded along, and then had hundreds slaughtered in the arena as a propaganda message. Antinous was about as guilty of cruelty as the hunting-dogs Hadrian kept at his heels, but when they bit into the necks of great beasts, they did not understand that they served only for amusement. He knew quite well.

Enjolras is no longer cordial with his parents for the same reason. To allow this affection, to compromise his morals, he could not stand before his friends at the Musain and speak with all his voice. Courfeyrac may be able to separate his flirting and his philosophy, and all the better for him. He did not spend his adolescence remembering being bedfellows with a tyrant.

Grantaire has long let his hand fall from Enjolras’s shoulder. He looks to him, lips set in a thin line, already disappointed. Enjolras does not know what he expected, whether he was seeking an Antinous.

At any rate, he apparently realizes he he hasn’t found one and turns, walking away. Grantaire looks back, the wind tossing at his coat but sparing his unruly hair, and their eyes meet. Enjolras thinks that he is glad his only memory will be of his Hadrian helping him. Better for both. He always did like to play the savior.

Then Grantaire turns, burying his hands deep in the pocket of his coat. He slouches off left, like a famous actor contracted for one scene to attract attendance to a mediocre play.

Against all his mind, Enjolras follows behind him.

It is a damnable habit, discomforting for others and wearying for him, but sometimes his mind becomes caught up on a person. He longs for more experience, as if another moment will finally unravel the mystery of their connection, beyond when they see each other socially. So he hunts, as he used to, always soft in his step and careful not to startle.

He’d followed Courfeyrac home for a week, until Courfeyrac caught him and winked, then they conversed two days straight, and after he took him home to Combeferre to solidify their trio. Now, Courfeyrac tells it as a joke. His voice betrays not only amusement but continual astonishment that Enjolras, who believes in self-determination even more fervently than he believes in air and water, could embark on what appeared to be a campaign of harassment.

If he’s asked, he refrains from it. Feuilly asked the first time Enjolras tailed him after a meeting, and Enjolras has still not seen his dwellings.

It isn’t a common response, and he’d thought it suppressed long ago, but his body propels itself into nooks where Grantaire isn’t looking, his feet trace where Hadrian’s mirror stepped minutes previously.

Grantaire taps his cane against his boots when he is interrupted by a cart in the street, stops to stare at a dog, and stops again to leer at a prostitute. It is evident that he wears Hadrian’s visage like the rest of his badly-tailored clothes.

The apartment-building Grantaire arrives at is not in terrific shape, but it does have a few flowering plants sitting on its bended roof. He kicks his boots against the first stair, and Enjolras watches him through the swinging door. Then Grantaire ascends, and the draw that forced Enjolras to follow him is severed with his passing. That was an exercise in futility. He’s sure he’ll leave now, and even surer that the address won’t dwell long in his mind.

That is, until L’Aigle stumbles out of the room on the bottom floor.

He’s still wrestling himself into his jacket, hat in his hands, showing off the ring of brown curls on his crown, when he looks up and recognizes Enjolras. “What--” he looks back, and Enjolras remembers he does not live here. “Hello,” he says, and attempts to finish his brawl with the jacket.

“Hello,” Enjolras says, cringing in the doorway.

“I--you’re not--” L’Aigle appears to draw some conclusion and his already-dark complexion deepens in a blush. “Oh, saints, Joly sent you.”

Enjolras tilts his neck. He can follow Grantaire throughout the streets, but apparently cannot keep up with two sentences.

“Don’t lie to me, good fellow, I knew it was hopeless from the start,” L’Aigle says. He places his hat gingerly atop what remains of his hair. “Say your denials if you will, but I am only angry that Joly did not tell me before he revealed this location to you. She is so beautiful, but what of it? She will have you and all us others will receive only cordial friendship. Ah, how vain of me to desire a longer affair--”

“I have no idea what you speak of,” Enjolras says.

“But you have not seen her yet! Well, be-gone from this place, if you love me. There are plenty of girls with lips like Musichetta, and hair, and eyes, and I would really rather you seduce them. As a favor, please.”

He vaguely recalls Joly rhapsodizing on his new mistress. A name had not been included, or an arrangement with L’Aigle.

“I promise, I am not here for--”

“I really will have words with Joly,” L’Aigle says, voice rising as he becomes more panicked. “I cannot believe you. There is nothing this building offers but a particularly insect-rich fauna and a half-blind landlord, which can be found in any other flat in Paris. If you are against the idea now, do not pretend with former intentions. For our friendship.”

“You are a good friend to us all, keep your voice down.”

“Well, she may meet you anyway, I am lost again! Let it be what will be! In a day I will remember it is only my eternal luck, and--”

Curse his commotion. Grantaire has reappeared, standing at the top of the stairs. He sees Enjolras and adopts that same stupid expression, a world of desire, accompanied by desperation thicker than L’Aigle’s uneasy squawking, dancing with sad shame, and attired in garments of accusation.

“Friend, I believe the gentleman and I need to have some private correspondence,” Grantaire says.

“No,” Enjolras says, and barely wavers.

“You followed me here,” he says. His words are laden with meanings: from the chausson circle, from Rome.

“My name is Antoine Enjolras,” he says. “I am a Republican, and a student, and an educator for the people. I am no one you know, Monsieur.”

“Did this man hurt you?” L’Aigle whispers in his ear. Enjolras shakes his head. He’d forgotten his little wound.

Grantaire takes one step down the stairs. “Tell me where to find you, again, to know you now.”

“This was a mistake,” Enjolras says. “All right, L’Aigle. See me to Joly, not to admonish him--he did not show me this place--but for my poor countenance.” Then he strides out the door.

L’Aigle is on his heels. “I think I will want to hear this story, just to be sure,” he says.

“Any version will begin with a reminder to question all resources available to Bahorel,” Enjolras grumbles.

By the time they make it to Joly’s apartment, his cut has split open again and he has managed to pass Grantaire off as a savate savior and not the second life of his past lover. It should hold credibility long enough to stop provoking interest in his friends. By the time the cut has scabbed over, Grantaire will be a strange episode from his other existence, ready to be pushed aside as the others. As it should be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The terms chausson and savate are used interchangeably here. All moves are actual chausson attacks, although Telbon's attempt for Enjolras's eyes was illegal at the time (but since chausson had not been codified, would merely be frowned upon).
> 
> Enjolras says Latin did not suit Hadrian because Hadrian preferred Greek. Hadrian took great care of his hounds, arranging tombs and writing poetry for them after they died. Also, he did have a large number of people killed in the arena politically.


End file.
